


Marks of the Centuries

by victoriousscarf



Series: Scars and Empires [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Empires have angry sex, M/M, Spain/S.Italy implied, as well as England's also messed up relationships with his colonies, empires with tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 02:54:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1493998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victoriousscarf/pseuds/victoriousscarf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“From the New World?” England asked.</p><p>“The jungle of it,” Spain agreed.</p><p>England’s gaze was a little too knowing when he looked over his shoulder. “When did you get it?”</p><p>“I don’t rightly remember,” Spain said, twisting his shirt in his hands, the white material almost tearing. “It was between one journey and another. The sea voyages, the revolts, the wars, they all blended together for a while.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marks of the Centuries

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meddalarksen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meddalarksen/gifts).



> For Medda because of the last few weeks. Also, dear, your cat misses you as he made writing this very difficult by sitting on my arms most of the time. Also, happy Easter?
> 
> Also, for all the people who have told me I take history too seriously: This is what comes of TAing a class that talked about empires too much. 
> 
> My Spain is forever influenced by studying colonial Latin America

The first time Spain had looked at England with a burning slash of _want_ in his chest was when he came back from the New World, blood already under his fingernails and carrying an axe over one shoulder. England had tilted his chin back and looked away.

They had known each other before then, of course they had. They had fought and gotten along, and their monarchs knew each other. But never before had he looked over and felt like dragging his hands down England’s spine and biting at his mouth.

He should have known from that moment that the New World would change him.

His kingdoms were unifying under his skin, and he ruled over swathes of Italy already, but grasping an entire continent and dragging as much of it as possible under his crown, molding a new land into his being should have scared him more than it did.

It took him decades, if not a couple centuries to realize what being an empire meant. Portugal had been on the seaways longer, and his eyes were already distant by the time Spain stepped foot on the islands of the New World on Columbus’ second journey.

It felt like he became an empire overnight, crushing other nations beneath him and laughing in England’s face, even as he watched his ships sink beneath the waves. Even when he came home covered in blood and Romano would stare at him like he had never seen him before. Even when the axe became heavy in his hands, Spain still felt like his power had only just been handed to him, the world still open with horizons and gold to be found.

Looking back when he dared to, he would remember things quite differently.

He would remember screams and blood soaked into his mouth, the fire that seemed to burn under his chest bone as the Inquisition moved through both the old and new worlds. A priest standing up in court and claiming they were doing everything wrong and Spain had laughed at him, dripping in gold chains because he agreed and could not show the court. Reading books written by priests and their indigenous pupils, illustrations of violence and disease and he remembered watching entire cities falling sick.

Between one endless campaign and another, he had staggered into the forest and returned with ink punctured into his skin, a black design sprawling over his lower back. He couldn’t remember much beside the pain of the pins stabbing the skin, and had never bothered to find out what the design meant.

It had been easier not to dwell on those things when he had power and wealth thrumming through his veins. Now his life was quieter, and sometimes when England looked over at him at meetings when his eyes got too dark, or he stilled, Spain could remember that overwhelming surge of desire he had once felt.

Since then England had become and empire too. Spain never asked him how that made him feel.

Somehow Spain found himself thinking about England while he stood on a warm beach, watching sunbathers lie in the sun, most of their skin displayed openly. Frankly, when Spain had tattooed his lower back, he had never really anticipated living in a time when clothing was so optional.

“We should go swimming,” Romano said next to him and Spain jerked, physically drawing himself out of his muddled musings.

“What?” he asked and Romano wasn’t meeting his eyes.

“You know,” he grumbled, gesturing to the beach they stood on. “Since we’re here and all.”

Spain stared at him for a panicked moment. Usually he would laugh it off, the sunlight warm on his face and hug Romano and tell him he was just too cute and somehow duck out of actually taking off his shirt without actually looking like that was what he was doing.

Instead his mind stuttered and he tripped over his own thoughts. “No,” he said too firmly and could see Romano’s eyes widen. “No, I need—I think I need to go take a nap.”

“I’ll come—” Romano started to say and Spain shook his head too fast, already backing up.

“No, no, enjoy the sun,” he said and his smile was so false it drew Romano up short. Spain fled, leaving Romano standing abandoned on the beach, mouth twisted in anger and rejection, trembling with the shame of it.

England was sedate now too, drinking tea and wearing nice clothes and pretending to be a gentleman just as much as Spain pretended to be happy and go lucky. Which was the only reason Spain could give for showing up on his doorstep and shoving the door wider the instant England opened it.

“Romano wanted to go swimming,” he said, storming into England’s living room.

England closed the door behind him, and followed. “Yes, and that requires you to come here…?” he waited, one bushy eyebrow raised.

“I don’t know,” Spain admitted after a beat, turning to stare at him.

“I’m not going to offer you tea,” England huffed.

“Do you ever think of it?” Spain asked and England stopped, hands frozen in midair from where he was reaching for a chair.

“Of what?” he asked, cautious and eyes shuttered.

Spain threw his head back, laughing. “Of the power, of the wars fought to control people who don’t belong to you, of the wealth of—”

“Of the sun never setting,” England murmured and they stared at each other.

“I can’t remember anymore,” Spain finally said. “If it was ever as grand as it felt or if it should have always been this awful.”

“I tied people to canons for disobeying me,” England said, tone too casual. “And then fired them. But that didn’t matter then because—”

“Everything else was so bright,” Spain said and they stared at each other again.

“I’ve never liked you,” Spain muttered.

“Why did going swimming bring this on?” England asked, as if he totally understood the flashes that brought the memories of empire crashing down around Spain’s ears. “You used to always like the ocean. I’ve seen you swim a hundred times, like the one you jumped off my ship.” His tone indicated he was still bitter about Spain’s escape.

“Well,” Spain huffed, trying not to laugh at the memory of England’s face the next time they met after that incident. “I never expected people to swim in so… little.”

England stared at him. “You invented the _bikini_.”

“Never with the intent of wearing one!” Spain protested, throwing his hands out.

Shaking his head, England shoved his hands into his pants pockets and watched Spain. “And why does the notion of wearing modern day swimwear bother you so.”

For a moment Spain paused before reaching down and pulling the shirt he was wearing over his head, turning at the same moment. He heard England’s breath catch the moment he saw the tattoo, dark ink spreading across the dip of his back.

“From the New World?” England asked.

“The jungle of it,” Spain agreed.

England’s gaze was a little too knowing when he looked over his shoulder. “When did you get it?”

“I don’t rightly remember,” Spain said, twisting his shirt in his hands, the white material almost tearing. “It was between one journey and another. The sea voyages, the revolts, the wars, they all blended together for a while.”

England inclined his head. “But it was centuries ago,” and his tone was heavy with meaning. Spain grit his teeth and turned around only to have England grab him and shove him back around, causing him to almost trip over his own feet.

“What,” he growled and England spread his hands over the small of his back, warm against his skin and Spain froze.

“You didn’t want Romano to see,” England said, breath ghosting over the top of Spain’s spine from where his head was bowed to look still at the tattoo despite his proximity. “To know the shame of your empire. As if he didn’t already know, as if he hadn’t already seen it as it happened.”

England leaned forward, breathing into Spain’s ear. “A tattoo would never last on us, it would fade after decades, let alone centuries, unless we wanted it to stay. Unless it had become a part of us so undeniable that it will never fade from our skin. And you’ve had this _centuries_.”

“I know,” Spain grit out, hands shaking and England reached around to tug the shirt out of his hands and throw it away somewhere. The action clashed with the stuffy furniture of the room. “Always knew you were still a punk in there—”

England bit his ear and Spain shuddered, remembering the way he had once stared at England across a royal court and desired nothing more than to slam him against the wall and bite his mouth until it bled into his, grind him into the stone walls and make him fall apart under his hands.

“If you never expected anyone to see this,” England was still speaking. “You must not have expected to have sex with anyone for a while. Sick of all the raping then?”

“Something like that,” Spain grit out and turned around, meeting England’s eyes. “You’ve seen it now.”

England’s smile was sharp, something he had often worn in the days when they sailed the seas, firing canons at each other. He looked like he had always expected this too.

He suddenly stepped back and toed off his shoes. “What,” Spain started as England unbuckled his belt and pulled the button of his pants free. He pushed his pants down, kicking them free and Spain’s eyes were drawn almost instantly to his inner thigh, a dark mass there. Leaning forward, Spain dropped to his knees to get a better look, the spot coming into focus and revealing a constellation of little stars, inked into the skin and spread across his inner thigh.

“America,” he said, hands coming up to hold England in place as he looked, eyes tracing all the little stars. “Would have a field day.”

England laughed, the sound not happy.

“Do you have fifty of them?” Spain asked, cheeky, unsure how he dared and England’s knee came up, slamming into his chin painfully but Spain only laughed, tracing a finger over the tattoo, connecting stars together and noticing several that were larger and smaller, one only half inked in and another only in outline. He leaned forward enough to kiss the skin, feeling England shake above him.

“I’d rather have a bed,” England remarked, already walking back toward the stairs and scrambling back to his feet, Spain slammed him against the wall of the stairwell, England managing to get two stairs up before Spain caught him. Moaning, England tilted his head down as Spain bit down hard and this was what he had always wanted to do.

Slowly, England started easing him up the stairs and down the hallway, fingers scraping at the skin of Spain’s back, drawn always to the tattoo and leaving red score marks, not quite breaking skin. By the time they reached the doorway to the bedroom, England turned them and slammed Spain into it.  

“Was it always going to come to this?” England asked, dragging his mouth along the line of Spain’s throat as he threw his head back.

“Yes,” he panted, arching his body in a long line against England, feeling his heartbeat for a moment before Spain shifted back to roll forward in one long motion.

“Damn your dancing,” England managed and Spain laughed.

“Did you used to watch, and want?” he asked, repeating the motion. “Our dances always were more sexual than your country dances.”

“Yes, you certainly learned from your colonies,” England said, fingers painful against Spain’s arms as he fumbled around to find the doorknob.

“You used to always watch India quite a lot too,” Spain said, and England’s eyes blazed in fury as Spain’s hand beat him to the doorknob, tumbling them both into the bedroom. Spain managed to straighten up first, catching England’s chin in both his hands and dragging his head back for another kiss, diving his tongue past where he had caused England’s lips to bleed earlier.

The bedspread looked more like something England had kept since the days of his old kings than the frilly and embroidered things he had on display everywhere else. Spain willingly threw himself backward on to it, dragging England with him. They landed with a grunt, Spain wiggling out of his pants and England leaning back to drag his shirt off.

Spain paused a moment to trace his finger tips lightly along the scars on England’s chest. There was another tiny tattoo on his shoulder, roses and Spain smiled. “A monarch or a war?”

England jabbed a finger into Spain’s collarbone, where there was a tiny scrawl of Arabic. “Was this before or after the _Reconquista_?”  

Before Spain could snarl back at him, England slide two fingers into Spain, who hadn’t even realized he had been slicking them. Throwing his head back, he arched up, pleasure burning with the pain. But he had felt so much worse for centuries that he only twisted and thrust himself back down. “Bastard,” he panted and England smiled benevolently down at him. Watching Spain writhe on his fingers, England’s eyes slowly darkened.

“I sometimes dreamed of what I would do to you,” he said, his other hand braced on Spain’s chest and trying to hold him down against the bed. “My favorite actually involved swallowing your cock and making you beg me.”

“It was a sin,” Spain managed.

“So’s getting a tattoo,” England breathed into his ear, leaning forward and a high pitched whine escaped Spain.

As England added a third finger Spain suddenly lunged forward, England’s fingers slipping out as Spain toppled him over onto his back, landing on top of him.

“You,” England started and trailed off into a breathless moan when Spain shimmied his hips for a moment and slammed himself down all at once onto England. “Oh bloody fucking—” England gasped, hands coming up to grab Spain’s hips, as much to balance himself as Spain.

Answering groan coming from deep in his stomach, Spain gave neither himself nor England any time to adjust, already rolling his hips and feeling England shift deeper inside him. Even with the brief preparation there was as much pain and pleasure as he moved, head thrown back and barely paying attention to the whimpering cries he made anymore.

“You git,” England growled, swearing more and more at Spain as he brought his knees up enough to lay his feet flat on the bed to thrust up, Spain’s hands braced on his chest. “Have you ever done this with Romano? Or are you too scared of letting him close, of letting him see, as if he hasn’t already seen you as if he doesn’t already know—”

“You ever decide who you want to fuck?” Spain asked, slamming down hard and England bit back a wail, fingers scrambling on Spain’s hips. “Or has it been just as long for you?”

It took England several moments to get his breath back enough to speak again. “But I’ve not been pathetically in love with the same nation for centuries. At least I don’t lust after the colony I raised—”

“Anyone ever tell America you don’t feel that way about him?” Spain asked, fairly certain America didn’t either, but wanting to see the flare of anger in England’s eyes. Suddenly England grabbed his hips and lifted him completely off. “What—?” Spain floundered, wondering if he had gone too far when England threw him around, Spain catching himself with his hands on England’s knees. Hands coming back to his hips, England slammed him back down on his cock. Fingers tightening on Spain’s hips, England’s thumbs dug into the edges of the tattoo.

“Oh fuck,” Spain managed, hanging his head and using the leverage of his hands on England’s knees to move even faster.

So focused on watching the ripple of his muscle under the tattoo, England’s orgasm almost surprised him when it came, rushing through him and leaving him feeling breathless and boneless. “Oh,” Spain managed when he collapsed backward. Spain hovered, panting, for a moment before he ground his hips back down with a frustrated sound. “Don’t you dare,” he threatened and England laughed, shifting so he could sit up and wrap his arms around Spain’s chest without pulling out.

“I really would like to make you beg me,” he said, wrapping one hand around Spain’s cock and Spain growled, twisting and trying to find pleasure. “You’d be—so gorgeous,” England murmured, biting Spain’s earlob and was rewarded with a jerk of Spain’s whole body and a drawn out moan. “Begging me,” he finished, drawing back to look at the earlobe, seeing a small hole where Spain had once worn an earring. “Do you miss those days then?” he asked and Spain dropped his head back on England’s shoulder as his hand finally started to move.

“You do too,” he panted, arching and twisting in the circle of England’s arms. “You have—the piercing still too. Should have healed,” he bit back something that might have been suspiciously like a scream. “Centuries ago.”

“Some things never leave us,” England said, nosing into Spain’s sweaty and dark hair, feeling the hitch of his breath as his stomach jumped. “Beg for me?”

“Go to hell,” Spain snarled and for a moment England’s hand clamped down on the base of Spain’s cock, as if he was going to deny him. “I’ll kill you,” Spain whined and England smirked against his temple, speeding up both his hands until Spain fell apart in his arms.

They both fell over, England’s arms still draped over Spain.

“I wonder what America’s tattoo will be,” Spain said after a moment and if he had the energy, England would have kicked him off the bed right then.

“You could always ask Mongolia,” he said, missing the bite his voice should have had and Spain laughed, wrapping his arms up underneath the pillow and burying his face in it, rolling onto his stomach as England fussed with the sheets.

England offered him tea in the morning and Spain laughed in his face, giving England all the excuse he wanted to kick the other nation out.

“I’m sorry,” he said, appearing on Romano’s doorstep and dragging him back out to the beach.

“For what?” Romano muttered, not meeting his eyes and Spain felt a wrench in his stomach to see that. They had been reunited such a short time, since fascist rule fell all at once, and sometimes Romano acted like Spain was going to kick him out again.

“Overreacting,” he said and before Romano could ask what over, Spain stripped his shirt off.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Romano managed and Spain laughed, the sound bright in the clear air as he took Romano’s hand and led him into the ocean.

And sometimes he would look over when the memories felt like they would choke him and England’s eyes would be dark with knowing.

 


End file.
